Redwood, 1992
by nauticalgalaxies
Summary: It's the summer of 1992. SAMCRO has a new prospect.


Tig knew prison was supposed to change a man, some for the better and some for the worse. And he was sure it had changed him, but he couldn't see it, merely shadows of it, maybe. If it had made him a little more restless, being locked up in monotony and strict routine, then he relished that feeling, now that he was back outside, feeling free.

Colleen could see it, she said, could see how it had changed him and she didn't like it. As Tig rolled to a slow-down through the gates of Teller-Morrow, he found it hard to care. Because it wasn't until that moment that he'd truly arrived home. If doing the time for this home, this family had changed him, hell his only hope was that his beautiful little girls didn't see him the way his Old Lady did.

Tig strode into the waiting crowd among cheers and hugs and laughs and he couldn't help how easy it was to forget the chokehold of domestic bliss his girl was trying to force him into. That wasn't him, never had been. Tig thought Colleen of all people knew that, figured that's why she'd married him, despite his devilishly handsome looks, of course, but maybe he wasn't the only one who'd changed.

Tig was greeted by Clay who pulled him into a crushing one-armed hug. Tig returned it gladly.

"It's good to have you back, brother," Clay said through a puff on the cigar that was sticking from his lips. Though cigars weren't his thing, Tig inhaled the smoke hungrily. It held an achingly familiar sting he hadn't realised he'd missed.

Throughout the past two years, Clay, his brother, his best friend, had been one of the few people from outside Tig had seen with any regularity. More so, even, than Tig had seen his wife. Clay had made himself Tig's liaison to the Club and to the outside world. He'd kept him sane and updated. On the Club, the Irish, their new prospect and even on his kids. Clay had made him confidant, even, on some far more delicate matters. Tig knew Clay was priming him, had pretty much been told so, and he'd never be able to even express how much it meant to him, how much the trust Clay put in him meant to him.

It took them almost half an hour of greetings and backslaps, but eventually the two of them managed to slip inside and take seats at the bar. Tig found a generous drink of whisky almost immediately and he downed it with a groan of satisfaction. Yeah, he'd missed that as well, he wasn't gonna lie. He handed his glass back for a refill.

Across the room, the lights were dim and the two men fighting in the ring caught Tig's eye. He knew one, he was sure and he was sure he hadn't seen the other before, though he was laying bloody hell on his opponent, that much Tig could tell.

"That him? The new prospect?" Tig yelled over the din of chatter and rock music, leaning closer to Clay.

"Yeah," Clay replied from behind a thick cloud of smoke. Tig reached into his cut and fished out his own packet of smokes, lighting up from the glow of Clay's cigar. In the ring, he watched the new prospect lay his opponent down flat.

"Damn," Tig said, nodding his approval.

"Yeah," Clay agreed. "That one's gonna earn us a pretty dime once we get him cooled down a bit."

Tig raised an eyebrow.

"He's a bit of a hot head," Clay elaborated. Tig responded with a grin and the prospect was already circling his next opponent - though the guy looked more like prey - in the ring.

"Doesn't tire easily," Tig commented, sipping his drink more slowly now.

"Nah," Clay agreed. "Does this most nights."

Tig watched the fight commence with interest, watched the two opponents stalk each other for a moment before the prospect went in, ferociously. Everything about the man screamed street fighter and while he wasn't toned, the way Tig was, from deliberate training, he was strong as fuck. And he fought dirty, Tig noticed with a laugh. Oh, Tig loved dirty. He watched the prospect lay in with a vicious right hook, flooring his opponent and then coming down on him like a ton of bricks. Tig winced in a sympathy he didn't really feel.

"Damn, who pissed in his cheerios?"

"Jimmy O'Phelan," Clay replied without taking his eyes off the fight.

Tig whistled, impressed. You had to be either really ballsy or really stupid to tangle with Jimmy O.

As the fight ended, the prospect announced the winner again, Tig decided he was gonna find out which case they were dealing with, here.

"My turn," he said, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bar decisively. "See if he has another round in him." Tig's grin was gleeful, maybe a little manic as he headed for the ring. On the sidelines, Tig handed off his cut, shirt and rings to Bobby, who was refereeing. The gathered spectators greeted Tig with cheers and some injected insults which Tig waved off with a middle finger.

Tig climbed into the ring and stopped a few feet away from the prospect. He was younger than Tig, by a few years and watching him, calculating, with dark eyes from beneath a messy, sweaty shock of sandy-brown hair. Tig knew he was at an advantage here, had watched the man fight for two rounds, and he knew it too. This was gonna be interesting.

They circled each other, never breaking eye-contact. Tig knew his opponent was going to lunge first and he was right. He easily sidestepped the attack. The prospect lunged past and rounded on Tig almost furiously, the fact that Tig was incapable of hiding his amusement clearly not helping his case. Tig knew he could make this easy, could make the kid tire himself out, but he didn't want to. Where'd be the fun in that?

This time, Tig blocked the swing that came at him, pushed back against the lunge and sent a fist flying into an unguarded area. They were on.

By the end of it they were both bleeding from various cuts, they were both bruised, they were both panting and sweaty. The prospect was lying back, propped up on his arms in the ring. Tig was laughing maniacally, exhilarated by the fight. Yeah, this felt good, this was how he got out the prison yard jitters.

Tig reached down a hand to the prospect who took it, letting himself be pulled up.

"So, you've gotta be Tig," the prospect said, once he was standing and Jesus, the accent was gonna take some getting used to, though it was a nice one.

"Yeah," Tig said, grin still in place.

"Chibs," the other man introduced himself, the grip on Tig's hand strong.

"This is a stupid idea," Tig told Clay as they hung back at the meeting with the Irish. Tig was watching the table at which JT, Chibs and two Irish men were gathered with hawk eyes.

"This is the whole reason the boy was patched in," Clay muttered back, cigar ever-present. He was obviously a hell of a lot more relaxed and far less concerned about the situation than Tig felt. But he could see the rage burning just underneath the surface of Chibs' skin and it made Tig uneasy. By now they'd all seen the powder keg the Scot's temper could be. He'd been patched in as a liaison to the Irish, but the way he was wired, he might as well be the one who blew the whole deal.

Chibs had been an anxious ball of rage all morning. In the van on the way to the meeting, Tig watched the other man sit hunched over, gloved fists clenched tightly. He'd even waved off Tig's offer of an alleviating smoke and, in the months he'd known him, Tig had never seen Chibs turn down a smoke or a drink, for that matter.

Now, as the conversation at the table went on, it was only more apparent that it was veering in a direction that was making the Scot only more agitated and causing even JT to cast uneasy glances at his companion.

When the coil finally snapped, Tig imagined he'd been able to see the exact moment. Chibs jumped up with a forward momentum and grabbed the man across from him by the shirt.

"The fuckin' bastard took my wife and daughter," Chibs roared, following it up with spitting something unintelligible in Gaelic in the other man's face. His face was twisted in a formidable rage and as much as Tig knew they were gonna have to break this up, inside all he felt was encouragement towards Chibs.

But Chibs had chosen the wrong Irishman to assault, had chosen the one who wouldn't take it lying down, who jumped right up, hands wrapping around Chibs' wrists, ready to throw him off and start a fight.

Clay didn't let it come to that. In a flash he was behind the Irishman, hauling him back. Tig did the same with Chibs, albeit in a manner a little more friendly, pulling back his arms and restraining those until the Irishman had been subdued.

Once the table had calmed down, Chibs shook off Tig's hold and Tig let him. Chibs grabbed the bottle of whisky from the table and stormed outside.

"Get him under control, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid" Clay barked at Tig, still restraining the Irishman and Tig nodded and rushed out after Chibs.

The door swung closed behind Tig, leaving the remaining four men in silence.

"He's going to make a good Sargeant at Arms," JT said quietly, as he watched Tig leave. With a nod, he let Clay know he could release their guest. Clay narrowed his eyes in irritation and confusion at JT's statement.

Outside, Tig found Chibs sitting on the curb, staring a hole into the ground before him. Tig settled down beside him and grasped Chibs' shoulder, giving it a strong squeeze. Tig let Chibs take one or two fortifying slugs of whisky, but ultimately confiscated the bottle. They'd all need to be able to drive. The day wasn't over yet.

"So, that's it, huh?" Tig asked after a few moments of watching Chibs brood in silence. It was a slow process, but Tig was starting to piece together the other man's story.

"Aye," Chibs responded stiffly after another stretch of silence. He sighed. "My little girl's gonna grow up calling that bastard daddy."

There was more emotion in that one sentence than Tig had ever heard Chibs express. He sighed sadly in sympathy and slung his arm around the other man's shoulder, pulling him in and bumping their heads together lightly. Chibs turned his head sideways slightly and squinted at Tig with damp eyes and a half-smile.

Tig dug up his smokes and his lighter and shook one out for Chibs before taking one for himself. He lit them both and they smoked in comfortable silence.

"You got any kids, Tig?" Chibs asked after a while.

"Yeah," Tig replied. "Two girls. Fawn and Dawn."

Chibs slid around a little on the sidewalk so he could look at Tig with a disbelieving grin that drove his dimples into his scars and made a spark light his eyes.

"You're taking the piss, right?" Chibs asked.

Tig smiled ruefully and shook his head: "Nah."

"Never seen them around," Chibs commented.

Tig sighed.

"Colleen hates it when I take them around the Club," Tig explained. "And... she took them and left right after I got out," Tig said.

Yeah, they'd lasted exactly another two weeks after that first night he'd gone back to the Club.

"Don't see them much, anymore," Tig added, testing the truth on his tongue. He hated how bitter it tasted, how much that truth stung in his chest and crushed against his lungs and he began to harden himself against it.

"I'm sorry, man," Chibs said, lowering his gaze in commiseration.

"Yeah, me too," Tig sighed.


End file.
